Soft Belly - Sharp Claws
by Salios
Summary: In which Q, the first ever Chinchilla Quartermaster of MI6, finds himself fending off the boredom induced harassment of James Bond, the suave, deadly, annoying little shit of an Ouroboros.
1. Chapter 1

I don't entirely know where I'm going with this. Consider it a dumping ground for such ideas. Q is a Chinchilla, Bond is a reptile, it's cute, and somehow works.  
Expect snark and a water pistol fairly often.

Obviously (you should know this with me having to tell you) this is a fanpiece and therefore not used for monetary gain.  
Guys interested in guys, espionage, anthro-type verse, you know.

* * *

The Quartermaster of MI6 wasn't at all what he'd been expected to be. He wasn't old, creaky, stuck in the old ways of things, or horrible to look at. The Quartermaster of MI6 was instead young, intelligent, snarky, and…cute. The Quartermasters of the past had been canines mostly, though with a few interspersed felines and birds. But this Quartermaster was the first of his kind. Long before he became Quartermaster, Q for short, he had been an unassuming Research and Development intern by the name of Falk D. Weaver.

He was the young man who hid in his corner cubicle; first into the office each morning, and the last to leave each night. He was quiet but polite, his productivity the highest in his branch. At first he worked on chemical compounds in pharmaceuticals, aiming to improve antibiotics and create anti-venoms when needed. His work was challenging and fast-paced and he had no complaints about his life. His coworkers had nothing bad to say about him, only that no one really knew Falk, that he was too quiet, too shy. For his work in creating an adaptive antibiotic Falk was offered a promotion, to which he declined. Falk was content in his corner with his baubles and skeins of wire and cabling. He was happy with the anonymity in which he lived and, while happy to be useful, he wasn't interested in being the center of attention. As far as Falk was concerned someone like him didn't want or need prestige; leave such things to canines and catamounts, to the various fowls with their bright plumage always seeking attention. But someone like him was too plain, too ordinary, and content with being just that. So he kept up the good work and continued to settle into his cubicle, which was really beginning to look more like a nest than a cubicle.

In the ten years that Falk had been employed at MI6, from the tender age of nineteen after being caught with his trousers around his ankles, so to speak, Falk had made many allies. His work in both computer sciences and robotics, and biochemical engineering had his name at the top of a very prestigious list, even if he had no interest in climbing the corporate ladder, so to speak. His superiors knew who to keep an eye on, and who could, and would, rise to the occasion when called.

And so, when Raoul Silva attacked MI6 headquarters and rendered both the current Quartermaster and his second incapable of completing their duties, Falk rose to the task.

* * *

The blast that had taken out the upper levels of MI6 had been intended to cause far more damage, and a much higher kill count. But Falk, having already been at his desk for several hours, was able to deflect the majority of the attack. Because of his quick thinking, and typing, dozens of lives had been saved. The list of living versus dead should have been enough to convince the young man he'd made the right decision, but for the list of deceased he tortured himself. If only he had been faster, smarter, no one would have had to die. But that was for later, for now he had to organize his people. **His** people. The techs, the researchers: the boffins of MI6. And for all the mutterings he had heard behind his back with each award, for each word of praise, he heard not a peep as he stood before his peers.

Not one MI6 employee complained that not a loyal canine, sly feline, or captivating fowl lead them. Not a single person spoke a word against him. Because for all the loyalty and selflessness of a canine, their command crumbled before his resolve, the quick decisiveness of a catamount rendered itself slow and weak in the face of his wit and intelligence, and for every bright feather and articulate speech a fowl could muster meant nothing to the stony determination he exuded as he kept them alive. Falk did more than help his people survive; they thrived under his rule.

The rule of a meek little Chinchilla.

* * *

His mistake with Silva's laptop had been excused, by the higher-ups, not by Q, he doubted he would ever allow himself to forget how much damage his pride had caused. Apparently letting a psychopathic, revenge-oriented ex-double-oh, with the mental instability that seemed the plague all Hyena, screw with their internal systems and nearly cause the death of the head of MI6 wasn't all that bad (considering that M, the silver fox who ran MI6, had managed to survive the destruction of Skyfall manor in Silva's last stand). Which, really, should have been an indication to Falk concerning just how screwed he would be if he stayed in this position. Oppositely, he rather liked the Quartermaster's office (once it had been rebuilt, of course). And the free reign to build and develop and code to his heart's content was worth the horribly hectic hours, panicked texts at any given time of day, and the unending petulance from his field agents.

Yes, **his** agents; he may have been a Chinchilla, but that didn't at all mean that Q, Falk, whatever, was willing to let someone else take chances with their lives. They were his annoying pests and to hell with anyone who tried to take them away. Well…Falk was almost willing to part with one of his pests; the biggest, meanest, cleverest of them. And by that, obviously, he meant James Bond.

Bond was one of the few Armadillo Girdled Lizards ever found in England. There was some speculation over his lineage, but so far no one had been brave enough (re: suicidal) to confront him about it. The man was smooth and sharp all at once. Unlike many he was able to keep his reptilian characteristics in check. Aside from a lack of ear shells, some scaling on his hands, neck, and if the gossip was to be believed, underbelly the only indication of Bond's species was the long, sharply plated tail that swept along behind him. Falk had seen his fair share of interns stare after that tail, a good number whispering about the kind of leverage Bond must have because of it. Falk made a habit of tweaking those interns' consoles and computers to only play such sounds and songs as Nyan Cat, Crazy Frog, and the occasional shout of 'HEY LISTEN'. Within a few hours he would relent, if only for his own sanity.

Bond…was a problem. He was also a major distraction for even the most disciplined in Q-branch. More than once Falk had been forced to threaten the double-oh with a squirt gun filled with ice water to get the reptile to leave his bunker. The agent, after Falk had finally given over and shot a stream of icy water into the man's face, would huff, twitch his flaring tail plates and neck, and leave with a an expression that promised retribution. To this day, Falk still checked every corner he turned, every seat he took, and every bathroom stall. Field agents were known for their viciousness in revenge, and they were fluffy kittens in comparison to the double-oh section.

But back to Falk's current problem (again): Bond.

The insufferable reptile had seated himself on the edge of Falk's desk and refused to move. Falk had given up working at his desk because every time he thought he'd found a comfortable spot out of reach of Bond's tail, the other man would disprove the new Q's safety by prodding him in the ribs, the calf, and in one instance that had him reaching for the chilled water pistol, Falk's tail. The younger man had promptly choked on his instinctive squeak and instead bared his teeth at the reptile, hissing.

Bond had actually been stunned. His pale, reptilian eyes had shrunken to icy slits, tail becoming rigid behind him. Chinchillas weren't aggressive mammals, quite the opposite, but there was something about Bond that made the head of Q branch's ears flutter and his fingers begin to grow claws.

Git.

"Double-Oh-Seven, in the event that you have outgrown the tools supplied to you by Q-branch I invite you to do that again. Oppositely, if you have any living brain cells in that hollow wedge you call a head, I suggest you find somewhere else to be and to never again _**touch my tail.**_" Falk's voice was low and while he wasn't quite snarling he knew that his human appearance was falling away. He felt the sharp tips of his teeth, having grown a fair bit recently as he'd been too busy to properly blunt them, against his tongue as he spoke. His claws, wickedly thin and sharp, pressed into the leather desk cover that his laptop sat on top of. Falk suspected that the black of his fur was even beginning to show, probably around his temples and jaw like he was wont to do when upset.

He half expected Bond to press further and was surprised when the Ouroboros stood from Q's desk and stepped back, palms up and away. They eyed each other for a moment, Falk's breath coming quickly, tail quivering with suppressed rage, Bond's chest rising a slight bit quicker than before. Finally Bond bent his head down and angled to the side. The gesture was submissive, unprecedented for Bond, and the angle kept his eyes in contact with Falk's.

"My mistake, I apologize, Q." It was said without sarcasm, low and smooth. Bond's eyes didn't flicker, his tail remained stationary, and the exposed plating on his neck didn't even change colour. He wasn't lying, not as far as Falk could tell.

Falk stood from his chair, back straight, fingers once again long and human. "Yes, well, see that it never happens again. I don't know how your species does things, Double-Oh-Seven, but in my genus what you did is beyond insulting." Bond's eyes flickered now, the pupil widening before shrinking back down to slits of black amongst a sea of arctic blue. He was surprised, again.

"Again, Quartermaster, I apologize. It will not happen again." The agent slowly lowered his hands to his sides, never looking away from his Quartermaster's green gaze.

Falk nodded, jaw set, "was there something you wanted concerning work, or were you merely looking for entertainment?"

"A bit of both, I suppose. One of your minions said you'd been working on something new for us double-ohs, I was hoping to provide myself for testing." Again his voice didn't waver, though the length of his tail wrapped around his left shin.

"Oh, that, well it isn't yet ready for testing. Nor is it nearly ready enough for my _subordinates_," he narrowed his eyes, emphasising the correct terminology, "to be chatting about. If and when the prototype comes to a stage where testing is required, Double-Oh-Seven, and I am in need of thorough durability data, I will _of course_ come to you." Bond's lips quirked up at the snark. "Until then, please occupy yourself with something more pedestrian; running, shooting, seducing another fowl from accounting maybe?" Bond's mouth blossomed into a full grin at the not so subtle shot at his ability to separate work and play, and really it shouldn't of made Falk's ears turn so hot, but it did.

"I'll make sure to take your advice to heart, Quartermaster. Thank you for your time." With that and a sly wink, Bond spun on the toe of one, no doubt, horridly expensive shoe, and sauntered (_sauntered!)_ from Q's office.

It wasn't until the breathless silence outside had passed into excited chatter did Falk flop back down into his chair and exhale in a loud huff. His ears hung limply and his tail curled around one thigh. Really, that man would certainly be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Q," the single letter that made up his name really shouldn't be so intimidating, really. But somehow, and the Chinchilla really didn't want to know how, M had perfected her monotone intimidation and eyebrow raise pairing so flawlessly that he could feel his tail duck between his legs and ears flatted to his head. Honestly. Q shuffled forward through the door, allowing the bullet-proof, sound-proof monstrosity to close after him with a barely heard 'click'. He was trapped now, truly, and he had to make due.

"You wanted to speak with me, M?" The head of MI6 eyed him for half a second before she gestured to the two leather chairs before her desk, a simple piece of furniture made of chrome and frosted glass. Falk again shuffled forward until he could sit, slowly, onto the edge of one cushion. He'd chosen the left chair. His ears remained flat and his tail had attempted to slide up the back of his cardigan. For a rodent Falk wasn't exactly submissive, he was too snarky and bristly to truly be what his species demanded, but how M watched him, pale eyed sharp, made him feel every bit the prey he was. Foxes weren't the largest predator he dealt with daily, not even slightly, but very few people have ever intimidated him like M did. And she hadn't even said more than his designation.

"Yes," she didn't continue and Falk suddenly felt as though he was missing something important.

"Ah...if I may be so bold...why?" He winced at the slight squeak in his voice.

M's hands folded on top of the desk, "I've gotten reports that Bond has taken to spending his free time in Q-branch. I want to know why."

Falk blinked, slightly thrown. The double-oh, for as long as he'd been working directly in Q-branch and not in R&D, had always been a fixture in his department. The new Quartermaster had taken it as a means to alleviate boredom rather than anything productive. But if M's simple sounding request was what he thought, than apparently having a field agent with a license to kill hanging about wasn't supposed to be normal.

"Ah, I hadn't realized it was a problem, Sir." The dark-haired man swallowed, mind whirring, "As far as I know he isn't actively disrupting our schedules and hasn't commandeered any of my resources, minus an intern here or there. I...I suppose my inexperience is to blame for not noticing his presence as a problem, I apologize. In the future I will ensure that he spend his off-time elsewhere, I – "

"You will not." Q blinked, ears flicking up and then back down.

"Ah...Sir?"

"Quartermaster, in all the years that I have known Double-Oh-Seven I have never seen him so..." She paused for a moment, considering. "So..._tame_," Falk blinked, tame wasn't an adjective he would have ever applied to the double-oh. "He's always been blowing up this, or seducing that, or terrorizing this department. But never before has he spent so much time in one place without some great fallout."

"So should I assume that something is coming then?"

"Heavens no! Don't invite trouble where the is none, child!" The chastising look and matching tone were laced with amused fondness. "I am not complaining; Double-Oh-Seven being occupied in such a way as this means less paperwork and fewer counselling sessions for our support staff. As you well know, Bond more than enjoys stirring the pot, as it were. No, what I want from you is for you to, subtly, find out _why_ Double-Oh-Seven is so enamoured with Q-branch."

"Yes Sir," that was all Falk said because, really, what else did one say to the second most powerful woman in Britain?

After the horribly awkward meeting in M's office the newest Quartermaster escaped to the cafeteria. Moneypenny called after him to save her a seat and a slice of pie. He did, raspberry, and took a seat by the window overlooking the Thames. As a Chinchilla he pointedly avoided water; the moisture that inevitably got trapped in his fur was murder and worth more pain and anti-biotic use than was strictly necessary. Fur rot was not fun in the least. But he enjoyed watching the water regardless and assumed, correctly, that Moneypenny would. Falk was so mesmerized by the thoughts in his head that he didn't notice another body at the table until something cool and firm prodded his side. Falk yelped and flailed one hand out, nearly knocking over his still piping tea.

A cool hand caught his and held it, the skin slightly rough. Ears again pinned back, Falk stared over at Bond. The reptile was grinning lazily back at him, baring a slim line of white teeth amongst the pale pink of his lips. His grip on Q's hand was gentle but firm. Pale blue eyes twinkled with mirth and Falk felt a flush climb across his nose and cheeks. He tugged weakly and Bond released the younger man's hand, returning his own to the table where it curled around a steaming cup of coffee. Falk's tail twitched against his back, thumping once or twice in irritation. Bond's tail curled lazily in the space between them, writhing back and forth leisurely. The double-oh was the picture of contented amusement.

Falk huffed and raised his hand, the same one that Bond had caught, and prodded the agent in the shoulder with his index finger. Bond's pale brows twitched upward, his grin widening slightly, but otherwise didn't move. Q's finger honestly felt as though he'd pressed against concrete, the agent's upper bicep was so firm. He grimaced and pulled his hand back only to have it caught again by Bond. His ears twitched and green eyes narrowed but Falk remained still, waiting. Bond, holding his Quartermaster's right hand in his left, gently turned it over until the soft flesh of Q's palm faced up. The double-oh then shifted in his seat, tail swinging for balance, until he properly faced Falk.

He released his coffee cup and brought that hand to cup the other side of Falk's palm. Bond's eyes, which up until this point hadn't broken contact with Falk's, dropped to stare at the palm he held. Bond's fingertips were warm, likely from the mug of coffee, and slightly calloused. Like the scratch of a well-loved wool blanket rather than sandpaper, like Falk had expected. The tip of Bond's right index finger touched his palm by the heel of his hand and drew downwards, eliciting a shiver from Q. He did this a few more times, up from the space between his thumb and forefinger, and across the width of his palm twice, three times. Bond hummed and repeated each motion. He only stopped when, after the third pass along the upper line crossing Falk's palm just below the pads of his hand, Falk squeaked. He glanced up and Falk looked away, knowing that his cheeks were darkly flushed and his tail was quivering against his back, once again hiding under his cardigan.

The double-oh cocked his head to one side and smiled slowly. "You have an interesting palm, Quartermaster."

Q jumped at the soft tone and glanced back, meeting Bond's eyes for half a second before glancing back down to where the other man cradled his hand; tan, calloused skin against long, pale digits. "I sincerely doubt that, Double-Oh-Seven."

Instead of being offended Bond merely chuckled and pointed down at Q's hand, "would you like to know what I'm looking at?"

"No thank you," he huffed, having quite enough of the agent's disregard for personal space. "If I could have my hand back please," to Falk's surprise Bond gently released his palm and folded his fingers back around his mug, still watching Q. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Double-Oh-Seven?"

"Hmm, not at present, no, I had hoped that the boffin pen would have something to entertain me today; I was sadly disappointed." Bond's gravelling draw sent shivers down Falk's back and his stiffened trying to hide them. "Your minions (subordinates!) had nothing new for me to play with, and as the head boffin was off frolicking elsewhere," Bond didn't even flinch at Falk's withering glare, "I thought to seek you out. See if maybe you had something to keep me entertained.

"That's Emperor Boffin, to you...peasant..." Falk narrowed his eyes comically and squinted in mock-anger at the field agent whom promptly burst out laughing. Startled, and never before having heard the loud, booming noise that was Bond's laughter, Falk squeaked. Bond paused mid-laugh and stared at Q for a second. Then his grin slid wide and his eyes dropped to slits.

"Quite a mouth on you, I think I like it, _Emperor_." The gravel had increased ten-fold, echoed by a faint hiss; likely Bond's creature attributes taking hold. "I wonder what else – "

Bond was cut off by a stream of water splattering against the right side of his face. He shouted and flew to his feet, tail lashing angrily. He turned on his aggressor, fingers having shifted into long, deadly claws, teeth bard in a snarl only to get another stream of icy water to the face. He backed away and hissed, swiping at the stream.

Eve Moneypenny cackled; a high pitched yelp that was at home with her Fennec heritage. She continued to fire streams of cold water from her water pistol, which was a vibrant neon pink with darker leopard spots, until Bond was five feet back and crowded against the next table. Falk could only sit and watch, awe struck.

Actually, that was a lie; he made sure to plaster himself against the window, well out of the way of the water, and then continued to stare.

Wearing a shit-eating grin Moneypenny said, "this boffin's mine, Bond, go find your own," ad promptly tucked away the water pistol, sat, and dug into her cooling piece of pie.

Falk was left slack-jawed and more than a little impressed.

Bond? Not so much.


	3. Chapter 3

Tucked carefully against the window, Falk eyed the double-oh with a mixture of amusement and dread. On one hand, seeing the normally smug, imperturbable reptile soaked and dishevelled in his bespoke suit was absolutely hilarious. Really, he had to remember to make copies of the security footage for later viewing. Oppositely...the blackish flush crawling up Bond's neck was a mite bit worrying. Not to mention the retention of his claws and the edges of thick plating at his collar. Falk gulped, suddenly debating the merits of jumping out the window. It was only, what, a six story fall? Easy. What were a couple of snapped femurs in exchange for avoiding the wrath of a double-oh?

Given Bond's repeat history for violent outbursts coupled with a completely stoic expression, Falk was more than a little surprised when the encroaching black flush, plating, and even talons disappeared. They didn't take their time reverting to human flesh, which would have been natural and wholly expected; no, Bond's animal characteristics were there one minute and the next they had simply _melted_ back into his flesh. Had Falk not actually watched the change happen mere moments before he wouldn't have believed that Bond had lost control, even for a moment. Which made Falk's decision to continue his attempts to fuse with the window glass, or rather pass through it, all the more valid as the double-oh calmly walked back to his previous spot beside the Quartermaster and smoothly fold back into the uncomfortable plastic seat.

Falk didn't dare breathe. Or make eye contact. He'd heard that making eye contact with a predator, especially one in circumstances such as these, was a terrible idea if one valued their continuation of life.

Moneypenny didn't even look up from her pie, munching away with a small smile. Bond hunched over his still hot coffee, forearms caging the cup to either side, and didn't say anything. Well then...Falk slowly, oh so slowly, stretched out one hand until he could just barely touch the edge of the cup. With unsure fingers he slowly drew it towards him, mindful of the beautiful (wait, what?) predator less than two feet away. Falk bit his lower lip, worrying away at the skin. Alright, he could man up and admit that Bond was attractive; it was, after all, one more weapon in his rather impressive arsenal. Likely the double-oh had been working on his ability to appeal to the people around him from before his time at MI6 and in the years after joining he'd been given the opportunity to hone his (likely) already impressive skills. So, Falk reasoned with himself, there really was no need to delve too deeply into _why_ he considered the double-oh attractive, he could just dismiss it as another hazard of his job...

And dear god was the list of reasons for his hazard pay already long. Really, he could likely paper his entire apartment if he ever felt like writing it all out.

Falk managed to curl both hands around the warm cup and went back to staring out the window. Oh what a life he lived.

Falk left the office early that day; there were no pressing missions to oversee, no double-ohs raining destruction down upon unsuspecting countries, and (for once) no mountains of paperwork to tie the new Q to his desk. As such Falk stopped at the Tesco by his flat for a few groceries, he hadn't exactly been home long enough to warrant food to be on hand in quite some time. Laden with bags he somehow managed to unlock his door and slip inside without dropping everything, though he would need to hold a service later for the poor soup tins he'd somehow managed to crush coming through the door.

His night was quick and after thoroughly cleaning his ears and tail he slipped into a pair of loose sleep pants and fell into bed where he burrowed under the covers. It took no time at all for sleep to come upon him.

Falk yawned, holding one hand up to maintain the semblance of manners that had somehow gone missing in recent months. His ears hung out to either side of his head and his tail was limp behind him. A few interns wished him a good morning, to which he grunted in reply. Really, who thought to make pleasantries at such a god awful time of day? He'd seen the bloody sun rise for fucks' sakes!

His early night, and wasn't Falk ever thankful for actually leaving Q-branch early enough to actually have a decent sleep, had been interrupted at half four the next morning. Apparently one of the idiot interns had locked himself in the server room and the only MI6 employee with sufficient access to clear the lock-down was, obviously, Q. Apparently his subordinates were less afraid of him than Tanner or M, though he understood their reluctance to bother M at such an hour. He would need to rectify that. Upon reaching MI6, without his morning tea or the leisurely dust-bath he had anticipated before bed last night, a very grumbly Falk had released the intern. Though not without such a withering glare he doubted he would need to put much effort into retraining his staff. Q, still pouting over his too-short dust-bath that morning, slouched into his office where he fell into his padded office chair with a sigh.

Maybe, if he locked the door and threatened his staff with permanent assignment to Double-Oh-Seven, he could get a few more hours of uninterrupted rest. One ear twitched up, hopeful, only to sag back down. Nope, not even a slight possibility of that. The black velvet Chinchilla dropped his head down onto the soft leather of his desk with a sigh. Well, that's what he attempted to do. His forehead instead impacted a hard lump, eliciting a choked squeak and a hiss. Q blinked down at the gaudily wrapped package with wide green eyes, ears perked and tail straight. Still no more than a third awake, he cocked his head to the side and stared. The packaging was a glossy purple, thick and well wrapped. He squinted at it, finding no card on or around the rectangular lump. He frowned and turned to his ever present messenger bag, pulling free his secure laptop. Without moving the package he set down the machine, opened the lid, and booted up. After signing in he sent off a quick message to Danielle, his senior tech in Q-branch, and waited.

A moment later she popped her head through his open door, smiling gently. For a catamount she was unusually sweet and soft-spoken. Well, until you stepped on her tail, so to speak. She sauntered in with stereotypical grace and stood on the other side of the desk, hip cocked.

"What can I do for you, Q?" Her soft tone made Q smile, tired as he was.

"Morning, Danielle. Sorry to bother you, but do you know anything about this?" He gestured at the glossy package, watching her face.

She smiled gently, understanding his lack of tact. Chinchilla were nocturnal, and aside from his regular days at MI6 the early morning wake up had no doubt thrown her boss' internal clock off something awful. "Yes, it was waiting for delivery outside Q-branch last night, just after you left. Security took a look and cleared it, so no worries there. Were you expecting something?" She frowned at the minute shake of his head, ears flopping. "Odd then, but I'm curious to see what you got." She came around to perch on the desk beside him, staring expectantly at the package.

"Ugh, stare at it all you like, Danielle, the bloody thing won't be doing any tricks." Falk shuffled out of his parka, draping it over the back of his chair, and combed a hand through his unruly hair. He blinked his eyes a few times, feeling his contacts settle; wearing his glasses for extended periods of time had become painful on his ears. Working for MI6 had ensured that he didn't have a set schedule, and as much as he liked the ability to simply remove his glasses versus finding a mirror and toting around a case and solution, contacts were more dependable for the hours he kept and the work he did. "Right then, shall I?" He pulled open a drawer to his left, fishing out a plain letter opener. He flipped the package, gently, and wedged the opener under one tab, prying loose the rectangle of scotch tape. He did this with the rest and soon the paper was neatly folded beside the package.

The box couldn't be more than a foot long and a half foot wide, rectangular, and plain brown cardboard. Falk tilted his head again, considering what it could be. He shrugged and pulled at the remaining tabs. Opening one end he gently shook the package until its contents fell out onto the leather cover of his desk. Danielle gasped, ducking in to hover over the package. Falk's jaw dropped.

In clear cellophane and fine lace rice paper accents was a package of rosehips from Fortnum & Mason. Falk stared at the luxurious treat, ears quivering. He loved rosehips, they were his favourite treat. But even at their lowest quality they weren't a cheap treat. He couldn't honestly remember the last time he'd enjoyed even a handful of rosehips. But a whole _bag?_ And from _Fortnum & Mason?!_ He had to control his squeaks. After a moment of staring, Danielle turned to him, eyes wide.

"Who the bloody hell are you sleeping with, and how can I get in on this?"

"Wh-what?! You _must_ be joking! I'm not sleeping with anyone!" Falk squeaked, hands raised to fend off what could possibly be a jealous catamount. Instead Danielle gave him a condescending 'mhmm' and gently picked up the bag. It was nearly two kilograms worth of his favourite treat. Falk's ears flattened and without meaning to his hands darted out and plucked the back from the catamount's hands, cradling it to his chest. That earned him an annoyed ear flick and a raised brow from Danielle. "Oh shush, they're _my_ treats."

"Well yes, but maybe I should inspect them for poisons; I would gladly place myself before you in the line of fire. Just give me one and I'll make sure they're fit for consumption." Q's ears and tail twitched. Danielle's tail curled over the armrest of his chair. "Fine, fine, die of poison for all I care!" She stood from the corner of his desk, barely hiding a grin. "Don't come crying to me when you're frothing at the mouth and sucking in your last breath!"

"Oh, don't worry about that, I certainly won't."

Danielle cackled as she let herself out of Falk's office, closing the door behind her. Falk gave the door once last glare before tucking his feet up onto the chair, shoes having been discarded, and staring down at the cellophane package. One long finger drew across the label. He hadn't mentioned his favourite treat to anyone here, not that he could remember, so how had someone known? Better yet, who would bother to send him gifts? Hell, who had the kind of money to send him rosehips from Fortnum & Mason of all places? Glancing around his office, though there was little to no chance someone could be hiding in the half dozen feet of open space to watch him, he gently pulled open the re-sealable zipper lock and inhaled.

Falk wasn't ashamed to admit, though later on he would deny this whole heartedly, that he moaned at bit at that first whiff of sugar and faint floral perfume. Heaven, that's what he'd been given; a two kilogram bag of pink and red bits of heaven. He'd repay his gifter the first chance he got, but for now he intended to fully enjoy the euphoria of his favourite treat.


	4. Chapter 4

Somehow, he really had no clue where he'd gathered the willpower from, Falk had refrained from finishing off the bag of rosehips in one go. Instead, he'd pulled out a few handfuls, resealed the bag, and tucked it away into the safe set into the floor beneath his desk. The rest of the day had gone smoothly without interruption, an oddity for Q-branch. Falk was more than a little concerned at the lack of explosions. He stood from his chair and moved around his desk to his door which was cracked open. He'd discarded his cardigan much earlier, the wool having grown too warm for comfort. His tie had quickly followed and lay crumpled somewhere in the general vicinity of the coat rack behind his desk. The first few buttons of his dress shirt were undone and the crisp white sleeves rolled to just below his elbows.

Carefully he nudged the door open further, ears twitching and swivelling back and forth. Quiet; Q-branch was never quiet. Q was now fully worried. He padded out into the wide room, eyeing the interns and employees typing silently at their desks. A few people threw glances his way only to quickly return their eyes back to their work. Odd... Q-branch employees were curious folk. The branch consisted of mostly catamounts and fowls with a few rodents tossed in for flavour, his self not included. Falk was the only Chinchilla, as far as he knew, in all of MI6. His kind weren't normally found in such cold climates as England, preferring the warm temperatures and high altitudes in South America. The cement flooring was chilly even through his socks and Q padded silently through the rows of desks to Danielle's. She sat comfortably at her desk, ankles crossed and shoulders straight, typing. She hummed under her breath, tail wagging behind her contentedly. Q paused for a moment before he interrupted her, doing so with a small wave.

She pushed back from the desk and turned to face him, smile pleasant. "Finally tore yourself away from those treats, yeah?" She laughed lightly at his protruding tongue, "yes, yes, you're all work and no play, I understand. What brings you over this way?" She cocked her head to the side.

Falk glanced around the long room that made up Q-branch, "something's off. It's far too quiet in here. Did someone die and forget to tell me?" It was a remark made only half in jest.

Danielle leaned out from behind her monitor to glance around Q-branch. Falk noticed the way her tail stilled, the tuffs of hair at the points of her ears waving as she twitched them back and forth. A slow frown made its way across Danielle's face and she flattened her palms against the desk top. She glanced back at Q and he shrugged minutely. Danielle locked her computer and then stood, her heeled shoes bringing her just short of Falk's brow. "Curiosity never did kill a cat, yeah?" The Quartermaster smirked but said nothing, merely following a few paces behind as the catamount stalked yet unseen prey. Even fewer Q-branch techs glanced up at the soft _click click_ of Danielle's steps. Her twitching nose brought them to the back corner of Q-branch, just before the door to storage. The back corner was usually reserved for interns; keeping them away from the busiest, crucial parts of the branch and at the same time allowing them to observe.

A young man sat at one of the desks, the others empty, he glanced up as they approached only to hunker down and gaze resolutely at his computer screen. He barely even blinked. Danielle stood just behind the man's left shoulder, arms folded under her bosom, ankles crossed. She didn't say anything, she didn't need to. She was a catamount, a predator, and had she been just a field mouse or a sparrow Q doubted that the commanding presence that she exuded would have been lessened. Content to watch, Falk remained behind the computer monitor across from Danielle, a few feet from the desk. He so loved to watch her work.

"Gregory..." Falk imagined that he could actually hear the young man's gulp, "would you be a dear and tell me what _exactly_," the emphasis, followed by a two-breath pause, had the intern's rounded mouse ears flattening, "is going on?"

There was another pause, in which Falk really was sure he heard the man gulp, before he answered. "Ah...nothing, nothing at all, R, we're just busy is all." Danielle said nothing, though she did lean forward slightly. "I-I mean, we're working on stuff, yeah, the stuff you gave us this morning, umm..." Danielle leaned farther forward, her chin less than six inches from the quivering tips of Gregory's ears, flush against his dirty-blonde curls. Rather than attempting to lie a third time, Gregory descended into fearful chittering. Danielle took pity on the intern and clapped one long-fingered hand to his head between his ears. She gently rustled his curls and gave a light scratch that ceased the chittering.

"Gregory, while I can't promise I won't be angry, I can promise not to take my anger out on you, _if_ you tell me what's going on." She continued to ruffle his hair, waiting for an answer.

The mouse nodded minutely under the gentle flex of his superior's hand. "After you went into Q's office an agent came in," he glanced over the top of his monitor, brown eyes fixing nervously on Falk's calm visage. "He spoke to one of the other techs and that tech passed on the message."

"Who was the first tech, Greg?" Danielle's tone was soft.

"I don't know, but I think it was someone by the door." After a gentle scratch from Danielle he continued. Greg wasn't nearly as tense as he had been, eyes drooping from the gentle massage. "The message wasn't really anything important but apparently we weren't supposed to tell you – " His eyes widened, suddenly realizing he was doing exactly what he'd been instructed not to. The stab of panic dissipated under gentle scratches and shushing from the catamount, who glanced over at Falk with an amused smirk; the catamount was enjoying this a little too much. "Uh, yeah, h-he just said that there were some really important things going on and that we needed to be really-really quiet and leave Q alone."

Falk and Danielle waited for the intern to continue, and when he didn't, they shared a glance. "And...?" Falk pushed, that couldn't possibly be all, not to keep a curious department like Q-branch sedated like this.

Greg flushed, "ah, I think there was some kind of bribe, but I really don't know. I'm just an intern, I do as I'm told."

Danielle sighed and pulled her hand back after one more scratch, stepping around the desk to stand with Falk. "Nothing for it then; you go back to doing whatever you had planned for today and I'll look into this." She tutted at Falk's raised brow, "none of that, pet, it's been rather dull as of late. And who better to ferret out answers to this problem than me?" She had a point, though Falk was loathe to admit it.

"Fine, fine!" Falk spun on the toe of one sock clad foot, huffing out a breath. "Take all the joy out of my work, Danielle! If you find me climbing the walls in boredom later on, be sure to note in my medical admission papers that it's entirely your fault!" He stalked back to his office to the sounds of snickering behind him. He really had nothing better to do today; for once he was caught up on paperwork and unless there was a sudden international crisis Q-branch wasn't slated to outfit any agents or monitor any missions for the next week. Really, no work and no play made Falk a very bored boy. He nudged the door of his office mostly shut once inside and padded to his desk. He took another handful of rosehips, tucked them into his pocket (which was already bulging with the round fruit), and powered down his laptop. His shoes were next to come on and, after making sure everything was in its place and there were no erroneous tasks he'd forgotten to tend to, Falk slipped back out of his office, leaving the light on, shades drawn, and door cracked open.

Q-branch would know he wasn't holed up in his office, though they knew better than to tell anyone who asked where he'd gone. He padded through the rows of desks and through a door opposite Greg's corner. Motion sensors flicked lights on ahead of him, revealing bare cement walls and a matching floor that sloped downward. The R&D labs had been built out of the way and below Q-branch. The rooms were staggered to prevent a domino effect if one were to ever collapse. The walk to R&D was silent aside from the soft click of Falk's shoes and the hum of the electric lights. He missed working down here. While Chinchilla weren't the type to live underground, he enjoyed the quiet and the odd comfort the space brought him. He left the corridor and continued into the well-lit offices that made up the practical testing areas for R&D. Most of the offices were up higher, above ground and overlooking the Thames. These labs, on the other hand, were intended for testing and application of the more destructive projects of Q-branch. Falk had many fond memories of wiring miniature explosives and mixing anti-venoms down here. Only the most dangerous components were kept this far below MI6. He nodded to the few techs in the midst of testing, moving onwards and through another set of doors. He ducked into the first office on the left and shut the door behind him. Using a hand scanner, pass code, and key card Falk opened a cabinet along the back wall and pulled free two boxes.

He set the two, gently, onto the steel table at the center of the room and went about emptying them. Inside one box, the larger of the two, were the pieces to a prototype SMG that he'd been fiddling with in his free time. The piece of weaponry was a mix of steel and carbon fibres, an odd mixture that he fully intended on improving, if and when he had time. With careful fingers Falk assembled the semi-automatic, sliding each piece into place with the sort of care most people reserved for explosives or small children. With one last sharp push and a snap the gun was assembled. It gleamed dully under the fluorescent lighting and Falk smiled. As much as he enjoyed coding and working with chemicals there wasn't quite anything so fulfilling as creating a gun from scratch. Even if no one but him would ever get a chance to use it. Actually, scratch that,_especially_ if no one but him ever got to use it. Falk plucked the second box from the table and left the room, pulling the door open with his free hand. The door locked behind him and it wasn't more than a five minute walk to the R&D range. Luckily he was the only occupant.

Falk selected the center lane and set down his supplies. He unloaded several full clips onto the table and set the box down outside the partition. Nimble hands plucked the specially designed ear and eye protection from their hooks under the table and slipped them on. A target was already strapped into place and with a twitch of his elbow he sent the target back to fifteen feet. The brunette was confident in his ability to hit the target at a greater distance, but it didn't hurt to start with an easy shot.

Gently, he pried loose one of the rounds. The modified 9mm round was clear with a wickedly sharp steel tip, the body of the round was housing for what would later be a multitude of materials. He may have told Bond that Q-branch no longer went in for exploding pens, but he hadn't said anything about explosive pistol rounds. Right now the small bullets were filled with a vibrant pink ink; the fluid was thick enough to adequately show against dark material but liquid enough to spread evenly. He was rather proud. Falk tossed the round up and, with a flick of his wrist, caught and slid the bullet home into the clip. Another twist and a sharp jerk of his arm had the elongated clip snapping into place.

Anyone who walked in at that moment would most certainly have turned and walked back out, just from the wicked smile that pulled Falk's mouth wide.

He lifted the submachine gun to his chest, pressing the stock against the crux of his shoulder where it sat comfortably. Falk may have been a Chinchilla, and built more slimly for speed and flexibility than strength, but the recoil from this SMG was little more than a gentle push when it fired. Really, he'd outdone himself with the recoil. His left hand came up to curl around the bottom front stock, cradling the length of the barrel and muzzle without ever coming close to touching the soon-to-be superheated metal. He lined up his shot, staring through the holographic sight, and flicked the safety off with his right index. It took barely a thought to change his breathing into slow, deep, inhales and even slower exhales. The length of his right finger slid down, past the trigger guard to curl around the sharp line of the steel trigger. He absently caressed the cool steel as he adjusted his chance, settling further.

In the pause between one breath and the next Falk's finger tightened and the SMG barked. The stock pressed back into his shoulder once, twice, three times. While capable of semi-auto and full-auto firing Falk was content with single shots for the moment. He continued breathing and firing until his clip was empty and kept still, letting himself breathe and adjust. He flicked the safety back on and gently set the gun, muzzle pointed down range, onto the table. He removed the clip, absently checking for marks on both gun and clip before setting that aside as well.

The cool brush of scaled fingers along the bare nape of Falk's neck made him freeze, hands shifting into long, sharp claws. Though his ear protection was no doubt to blame, Falk wasn't disillusioned enough to believe that his visitor had been any more perceptible without them. The Chinchilla ducked forward and away, turning so that his hips brushed the edge of the table without disturbing any of the equipment on top. He glared through the yellow lenses, ears dislodging the protection with an angry twitch. They clattered to the table beside the gun though he didn't turn to look.

Bond, hand casually outstretched, watched him with one raised brow. His smile was wide and vicious, the sight sending a line of...something down Falk's spine. The black slits of Bond's pupils were nearly lost among the blue of his eyes, pale and predatory, even under the cheap indoor lighting.


	5. Chapter 5

Even having moved away several inches, Bond's fingers still hovered too close to Falk's mouth for comfort. The boffin focused on the calloused tips before glancing past them to the older agent's face. Bond looked calm, then again he almost always looked calm. His posture was relaxed but that didn't lessen the instinctual response of runrunrun that thrummed through the Quartermaster's limbs.

"Double-Oh-Seven, what can I do for you?" Falk's breath ghosted over Bond's fingertips and the big man shivered. Oh, well then, he figured he may as well work with that he'd been given. As the moment for Bond to respond came and went the slim man shifted forward. He didn't close the distance between them entirely, just enough so that Bond's outstretched hand found itself all but nestled in the outer curls of Falk's impressive mop. The bottoms of his rounded ears twitched against the cool skin. Another shiver passed through the double-oh and Falk bit back a . "Double-Oh-Seven...?" He tilted his head slightly towards the agent's hand, which had turned so that the softer flesh of his palm was to Falk's face, not quite touching. The slight angle of the younger man's head made it so on his next breath the calloused palm gently, faintly, touched Falk's cheek.

Bond withdrew his hand as though burned, stepping back one and then two paces to put distance between them. That was fine by Falk, he preferred having a bubble of space at all times versus rubbing elbows. Especially when those elbows belonged to an agent with a licence to kill and the compunction to use it. Carefully Falk straightened, jerking his head back and slightly to the side so that his fringe settled into the mass of curls rather than across his eyes. He watched Bond for a second before shrugging and turning on his heel. With deft hands the Quartermaster went about checking his gun and with the tap of one elbow to the button on the wall drew the target back to his table. He unhooked the tattered paper, each shot having punctured the inner four rings of the chest, and tucked it away to his side. He clipped on another and sent the target back, this time to thirty feet. It wasn't until he'd slid in another magazine and pulled back the slide, ear protection again applied, that he noticed any movement from Bond.

The older man had taken up residence in the lane two down from Falk, on his right. The only reason he'd noticed was the addition of another paper target. It was stationed maybe fifty feet back; if the stubborn reptile wanted to show off to an empty room, so be it. The Chinchilla went about his perfunctory checks before raising the stock again to his shoulder, lining up his shot, and gently coaxing the trigger into submission.

Snap! Pop!

The round impacted the target's forehead before slamming into the far wall.

Falk was too busy swearing a blue streak to care about his perfect shot. He managed to click on the safety and drop the clip before all but throwing his prototype onto the table. It caught on the far edge, a raised lip keeping the weapon from falling into the range. He was torn between raising a hand to check his face and clutching the fingers of his right hand around his left to stem the blood flow. Shrapnel to the face, or severed finger, hmm, decisions, decisions. Really, his subconscious needed to stop with the jokes and terrible timing. Falk shook his head, ear coverings falling off, thumping against his back on the way down, and glasses sliding down his nose. He snarled, frustrated, angry, and in pain.

Before he could manage another furious shake the glasses were plucked from his nose and set onto the table. The thin man turned, face half snarl, half pained grimace to have his chin gently caught by a cool hand. The glare he directed at Bond wasn't intentional, he wasn't really mad athim but the other agent caught the full force of Falk's temper.

He could tell, both by the alarmed flicker of emotion across Bond's impassive features, and the hot drip of blood onto and through his collar, that his face had definitely taken a hit. On the plus side, he could see with both eyes. That had to count for something. Bond's other hand came around the bicep on Falk's wounded side and gently pulled the other man out of his lane. The edges of his vision populated with black motes but he shook them off. Now was not a good time to pass out. Though he wobbled, he managed to reach the spare break room down the hall and around the corner from the range. Bond coaxed Falk into perching on one of the couches, overstuffed and easy to get stuck in (Falk had some experience with the Q-branch furniture almost eating him). The double-oh stepped into the washroom and returned with a modest first-aid kit. By modest, Falk actually meant a duffle with straining seams.

He watched Bond occupy the coffee table at his knees. He leant forward and took both of Falk's hands in his own. The Boffin's slender digits were dwarfed by Bond's thicker, darker, calloused hands. With surprising gentleness he pried away Falk's right hand from where it was clenched tightly around his left. The younger man looked away sharply, eyes clenching shut as he fought down a wave of nausea. He wasn't usually offended by blood, but these were his fingers. Without them he didn't have a job, a life. He was nobody without his hands to code, write, and craft with. He bit back a sob and began piecing together strings of ones and zeroes in his head to distract himself from Bond's ministrations. He heard the tell tale zip and the rustle of canvas while Bond fished through the bag. After a moment his second hand returned and tugged Falk's uninjured hand away and pressed it down onto the point of one thick knee. His fingers latched on to the point of contact, digging into the cords of muscle through the soft layer of high-end wool and leaving behind trails of smeared blood. Bond huffed, the sound both amused and uncomfortable. Apologetic, the Quartermaster whined and lessened his grip slightly. Bond's grip returned to the young man's hand and squeezed, pressing the long fingers into the muscle a little more tightly. Falk gave another squeeze, thanks, before returning to his mental coding. The feel of Bond's warmth under his hand was enough to ground him.

Bond gently dabbed around the wounds with a wad of cotton, not yet touching the shredded skin. The Chinchilla chittered regardless, ears flopping forward and back. One brushed Bond's hair and the older man looked up. Falk caught the movement from the corner of his eye and he looked over, dilated green eyes meeting calm arctic blue. Swallowing he jerked his head away again, this time flapping his ears forward to cover part of his face. After a few breaths Bond returned to the hand in his grasp.

It wasn't long before it was cleaned, disinfected, doused with a liberal amount of salve, and wrapped in stiff white bandages. Bond gently patted the younger man's wrist after setting it onto his knee with its twin. Falk's ears twitched.

Again a cool hand cupped his chin and gently turned the Quartermaster's face into the light. The double-oh tsk'd and went about wiping away the blood still dripping down Falk's face. There were several winces and one particularly embarrassing flinch paired with a pained chitter that prompted Bond to actually shush the Quartermaster before the agent pulled the stained cloth away. He expertly tossed the flannel into the bin across from the couch, against the far wall, and went back to eyeing Falk's wound.

"That counts as toxic waste, you know." Those few words were enough to make him cringe, his lip pulling in two directions. Well, that can't be good... Falk swallowed and pursed his lips, trying to ignore how that too felt wrong.

The double-oh rolled his eyes and deftly plucked a pair of tweezers from the bag and unwrapped them from their packet. He held a thick swathe of folded gauze in his other hand and stared at Falk, eyes calm arctic shards. "This will probably hurt, but I need to get those bits out." At his patient's thick gulp and weak nod, Bond went to work.

He had to bracket Falk's lean legs with his own thick thighs to keep the younger man from squirming away as the metal prongs dug into ruined flesh. After the first few attempts the double-oh huffed and pulled back. The Chinchilla's gaze followed, ears quivering against his dark mass of curls. His good hand was clenched into the fabric of the couch rather than Bond's knee, knuckles starkly white against the dark cloth. Bond sighed.

"Q..." A whimper was his response, Bond sighed again. He quickly tucked one arm under the younger man's knees and twisted. With the sharp change of direction Falk's body turned so that his head impacted the seat cushions. Bond wasted no time in straddling the younger man's hips and cupping his uninjured cheek with one strong hand. Bond's grip shifted to hold the boffin's head at a different angle, leaving Falk's panicked breaths to ghost over the webbing between thumb and forefinger. The thrum of the younger man's pulse beat against his pinky finger where it was pressed to the underside of his jaw.

Bond's tail wrapped itself around Falk's legs, keeping him from wriggling too much. The gentle press of hard scales against thin limbs both terrified and comforted the boffin. Bond was a living weapon, and here he was playing nurse to Falk. That of course, damn his imagination, prompted an oddly tempting vision of the double-oh dressed in a very short, old style nurse outfit. Falk promptly went about beating his subconscious into a metaphorical bloody pulp.

The sharp prongs of the tweezers dug into the soft flesh of Falk's jaw and he yelped, good hand slapping at Bond's sturdy mass. The tail unwound from Falk's legs to capture the flailing appendage and tuck it between Bond's thigh and Falk's hip. The younger man's tail was erratically switching between quivering and thumping the couch cushions. He really didn't like pain! The plated tail went there next and twined itself with the softly furred appendage, gently squeezing.

At some point Bond began hissing; a low, gentle sound that was one part seductive gravel, one part reassurance. The sound was out of place coming from Bond, but it helped Falk to relax somewhat. He chittered back; soft sounds that were almost pleading. The animalistic sounds weren't understandable as words were, but the inflection was enough. It didn't take long for all the bits of shrapnel to be pried loose. Each one was tossed onto the table beside them, landing with a metallic clink. The double-oh closed the worst of the wounds with butterfly bandages before smearing antiseptic over the rest and applying a crisp white bandage, matching the ones on Falk's fingers. The blonde remained straddling the boffin's hips for a few moments more, gently hissing and carefully turning the young man's head back and forth. At some point the Chinchilla had closed his eyes and didn't think to open them until he felt the double-oh pull away.

Bond looked far too at ease settled across the Quartermaster's lap, the points of his knees just under Falk's floating ribs, his thighs pressing against the bony juts of slim hips. The brunette found himself unable to look away from those pale eyes. The calloused pad of Bond's thumb gently stroked the corner of the younger man's mouth. Falk's tongue darted out to wet his lips, the tip just brushing against Bond's nail. The bigger man shuddered, legs tightening, tail squeezing. The Quartermaster watched as the slit pupil widened until only a white-blue ring was left. Breath caught in his throat, Falk didn't dare move as the double-oh leant forward until scarcely an inch remained between them.

This was unprofessional, he was the MI6 Quartermaster and he would be damned if he let some lizard get to him. Especially in his own lab! Any second now Falk would throw the double-oh off, tear a verbal strip from his hide, and then banish the deviant from his branch indefinitely. Yes, exactly! That would show him, no one could mess with - !

Really, he had intended to do just that. But with the first gentle press of thin, slightly chapped lips to his own blood-swollen pair, any thought the Quartermaster had entertained about asserting dominance promptly flew out the metaphorical window. The kiss was gentle, merely a brush of lips that seemed suspended in time. Bond's lips were outwardly cool, but the Chinchilla could feel the promise of heat with each breath the double-oh exhaled against his mouth. Falk's lips parted slightly and he chittered softly. Bond hissed back. There was the faintest touch of a thin, forked tongue to the warm inside of Falk's upper lip before the double-oh was suddenly gone.

The brunette blinked up, momentarily blinded by the overhead lights. Then he turned his head to watch Bond tuck the bloodied metal bits into a plastic bag, the top adorned with a thick red label that read 'EVIDENCE'. The agent tidied up the bloodied fabric and implements, tossing the whole lot into the bin to join the soiled flannel.

"What did you blow up this time?"

Falk blinked and lifted his head from the couch. His hair must be in a right mess, and his ears and cheeks flushed. The aforementioned appendages perked up, the rest of his body following until he was sitting properly on the couch. He gave Moneypenny a sheepish look. "It was an accident this time, promise."

"Mhmm," she gave him a pointed glare, promising a later, more thorough interrogation, before turning her attention to Bond. "And what part did you play in this, Double-Oh-Seven?"

"I was merely sharing the range when it happened. Anyone else with half a brain would have done the same." He slanted a cheeky grin back at Falk, "we can't have our Quartermaster bleeding out on the floor of his own branch after all."

Falk huffed, "it wasn't nearly that bad!" He held up his bandaged hand, "see?"

Moneypenny rolled her eyes and stepped forward to haul Falk to his feet. The mammal went with only the smallest of protests. Bond stood behind the coffee table, between the doors to the washrooms. He stared at Falk as they exchanged thanks and social niceties before Eve hauled Falk from the room. Bond's eyes didn't leave the Quartermaster's frame until the door shut behind him.

* * *

"So, what did you do, anyway?"

He huffed, tail curled around one thigh as he walked beside Eve. "I was testing that prototype SMG I told you about." She gave a quiet ah and he continued, "something went wrong in the chamber or barrel and it backfired."

Eve stopped and turned to stare at him, eyes wide and jaw slack. "Q, your gun backfired?!"

He coughed and scratched the back of his head, sheepish, "...yes...?"

She growled and swatted at him, to which he allowed. He probably deserved it. Well, not probably, definitely. She worried too much about him. "How are you so damn calm? You could have blown your head off!"

"But I didn't."

"But you could have."

"Didn't."

"Auuuuugh!" Eve turned on her heel, hands thrown into the air, and stalked away.

Falk laughed and followed her, tail once again bouncing at his back. He caught up and gently tugged her's; the caramel and dark chocolate fur soft under his uninjured fingers. "Oh come on, just lecture me, give me a big hug, and get over it." That earned him another swipe though she did grab his right hand in her left and didn't let go until they reached Q-branch.


End file.
